by Eric Flint
"How did I miss all that?"
Debbie sighed. "There were other things going on here at the time. And we didn't see them all that frequently anyway, so you may not really have noticed the difference. Aside from being sisters, Aura Lee and I didn't really have the same friends, the same acquaintances, by then. It had been over fifteen years since we shared that apartment while we were at the university. She was in Charleston for seven years and then had her own concerns the first few years after they got married. The doctors had to take both Billy Lee and Juliann by C-section and neither pregnancy was what they call uncomplicated."
"I've been getting so much news lately," Missy said, "that I sort of feel like one of the guys who were under the gun in the 'Charge of the Light Brigade' poem."
"If you think about it," Debbie said, "mostly our families only saw one another when all of us were out at your Pop and Nani's for a holiday. You and Chip were enough older than Billy Lee and Juliann that you were set to watch them more often than you played with them, really. The two of you had Eric and Dana to play with. Bill was a bit older. In fact, half the time he watched the little ones while the four of you played. He's always been very responsible."
Missy leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "And Dad and Uncle Joe don't really get along all that well. I know. Anyway. Is she okay now? Aunt Aura Lee, I mean?"
"As far as I know," Debbie said. "I certainly hope so. Because if the cancer recurs, down-time, there's not going to be much anyone can do about it."
"Yeah," Missy said. "Bill and Ron go on and on about that sort of thing when they're talking to one another out at Lothlorien. On and on and on. That the kind of research they're trying to do will be of more help to our children and grandchildren than to our parents and grandparents."
Chapter 65
Magdeburg
"You're sure about that?" Mike Stearns took his gaze away from his office window and looked back over his shoulder at Nasi, sitting in a chair next to his desk. The spymaster had just returned to the capital that morning and had requested an immediate meeting with his boss.
"Yes," said Francisco firmly. "I have weighed the matter carefully, and for many hours. Double-checking myself to make sure I did not overlook any piece of the puzzle."
Mike looked back down at the Elbe. With such a nice sunny day, he had the window open, so he could enjoy some fresh air. "It seems a little incredible, though."
Nasi smiled, a bit ruefully. "Yes, I suppose. But it's not, really. I was only able to unravel the plot myself through a haphazard series of chances. However preposterous the overall logic of their scheme might have been, Ducos and his people carried it out quite well in the details."
Mike nodded. "Yes, I understand. Still… Nobody knows?"
Nasi made a face. "Well… I wouldn't put it quite that strongly. Cory Joe Lang knows the truth, of course, and perhaps his sister Pam. But both of them have every personal reason to want the matter kept secret. Ed Piazza and Wes Jenkins-perhaps Arnold Bellamy also; always hard to tell with him-understand much of the plot, at least at it impacted directly on Thuringia and Franconia. But I spoke to both of them and they are agreed that no good purpose would be served by making the matter public. It's quite clear that Laurent Mauger had no idea that he was actually working for Ducos' fanatics, nor did he know what they had planned in the way of attacks on the hospital and synagogue. He was, as you say, a 'cat's-paw.' Or a 'patsy,' if I understand that term correctly."
He shrugged. "So why make his role public? Or that of Dumais, who was his agent on the spot? That would only have the immediate effect of damaging the personal situations of Velma Hardesty's children, Cory Joe and Pam and Susan. Who are certainly blameless in all respects. And, in the long run, it would be foolish. Far better for us to have a lead into some of the inner circles of the Huguenot political exiles, which we now have through the Mauger connection. Not to mention…"
"Yes, I understand. Duke Henri de Rohan will be quite careful to stay on good terms with us, from now on. Lest we drag this mess out from under a rock and beat him with it."
"His brother Soubise, as well. Both quite capable men, and who can say what alliances might be valuable in the time to come? As it stands, Rohan sent me a letter recently assuring us that he had no knowledge whatsoever of Ducos' intentions. He also provided me with some details of the plot that had previously been obscure, that his agents had uncovered themselves. I think that's a connection that will prove valuable in the future, especially given his close ties to Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar."
Mike turned away from the window and resumed his seat behind the desk. "Okay. And I'm not really worried about Ed and Wes anyway. But what about the kids? They've got to know most of it."
"Oh, yes. But the four who are critical-Denise, Minnie, Ron Stone and Missy Jenkins-have every reason to keep quiet also." Nasi raised his fist and coughed into it. "Not, you understand, that I was so coarse as to threaten to press murder charges against the two girls. I made no reference to the matter of Holloway's killing at all. Still, they have every reason to, as you say, let lying dogs sleep."
"It's 'sleeping dogs lie.' But I see your point." Mike chuckled softly. "Not that they'd really have much to worry about. No jury in Grantville would convict Denise of murder. Hell, not even manslaughter. Not after what Holloway did before he beat it out of town, and not after what her father did at the synagogue. But she's only sixteen, and the kind of kid who takes it for granted that her relationship with the authorities will always be a contentious one."
He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
"And no one in the leadership of the Committees of Correspondence knows anything," he mused. "Like everyone else, they're assuming that the killings were carried out by one or another of the anti-Semitic outfits."
"Exactly." Nasi chuckled also, much less softly than Mike had done. "It's amusing, in a way. Ducos' people did their job too well. By keeping their own role hidden and using anti-Semites and other fanatics as their… ah, forward men?"
"Front men."
"Yes, front men. By doing so, they completely failed in their ultimate aim. I doubt if there is a single sane person in the Germanies who suspects Cardinal Richelieu of the deed. Instead, everyone is blaming our homegrown reactionaries-who were actually not much more than patsies themselves."
"Vicious, stinking, filthy patsies," said Mike, re-opening his eyes. "And soon to be very dead patsies, many of them. And good riddance."
He sat up straight. "All right, Francisco. We'll do it. Is Gretchen back in Magdeburg yet?"
"She's supposed to arrive tomorrow."
"Fine. Pass the word quietly to Spartacus that I'll want a private meeting-very private-with the two of them, as soon as she returns. Um. Better include Gunther Achterhof in the invitation also. For something like this, it'd be pointless not to involve him from the start."
Nasi nodded. "And which of the lists do you want me to have ready for them?"
"All of them," said Mike grimly.
Nasi's eyebrows went up. "You are certain?"
Mike nodded. "Yes, I am. Every last scrap of information you've put together on the USE's anti-Semitic outfits."
"You understand that means, essentially, every extremist reactionary group in the nation? In the nature of things, anti-Semitism is their common coinage even if most of them don't actually do much about it."
"Yes, I understand. Ask me if I care. We'll use the vicious murder of a nice old man by Huguenot fanatics to rid the Germanies of a plague that's been a problem for centuries in this universe and, in at least one other universe, produced a nightmare. Set up the meeting, Francisco."
Chapter 66
Grantville
Missy lay in Ron's arms, shuddering, her face down on his shoulder. "What in hell was that?"
Ron stroked her hair, then started rubbing the back of her neck. "You came. All the way. Not because we were doing it, or even anywhere close. Not even heavy petting. Not even really making out. Just lying here
with all our clothes on the way we always do-well, mostly do, kissing and hugging, and wanting. Damn it, Missy. We're so ready for prime time that it isn't even funny any more."
She left her face right where it was and nodded.
He slipped his hand between her sweater and her blouse. His knee came up between her legs. Then he realized something.
"Where's the accessory? Want to get it?"
"It's prom night. I loaned it to Gertrude, just in case."
He thought about that a minute. "I take it that's not an open invitation to further advances. 'Greater love hath no woman' than to take a risk for the sake of her 'kid sister.' Because she loves her."
"I…"
"What?"
"After I gave it to Gertrude, I went and saw Kortney. And she. She said to tell you."
Missy stopped.
"Tell me what, Miss Missy?"
She had her face buried all the way in his sweater. He pushed her chin up.
"That it's the biggest sponge she could squeeze in the way things are so you'll have to be careful not to poke it through the cervix because they're a pain to get out all in one piece and don't do any good anyhow unless they stay on this side. And I'm to come back and get a bigger one next week, if… if it turns out not to be a one time thing."
Her face went right back down into his sweater. What little skin he could see around the edges of her hair was beet red.
Any guy who would hang around a girl for six months waiting for her to agree to do it and only want to do it once would have to be some kind of pathological… Normal guys didn't wait that long in hopes of a one night stand. But he'd never exactly said anything about long-term. Long range. Whatever. They'd talked about everything else on earth, but when it came to sex, all they'd ever said was, "No way, not now." And it was Missy who kept saying that.
Even here in Grantville, right in the high school, there had been a couple of guys who did whatever it took to score and then dropped the girl the minute she was on their card.
There was something skeptical that was part of the basic Missy. She never made assumptions. She didn't take anything for granted. "No risks you don't want" from him didn't quite cover the case of risks she did want.
The day her mind decided to agree with her instincts, she had gone to see Kortney, who could and did ask the most embarrassing questions imaginable. Then she had come out to Lothlorien this evening and walked right into his arms.
"You'd better plan on going back. And getting a large-sized bottle of that solution they dunk the sponges in."
He stroked her spine for a while. The little bit of her face he could see was returning to its usual color. While he thought. Once she decided, she had walked right into his arms. Without a word of commitment from him. Even though the last thing in the world she wanted to do was have a baby. Even though she knew how iffy anything Kortney could give her was. Even though she had thought about the possibility that it might be a "one time thing" for him.
"Miss Jenkins, would you do me the honor of bestowing your hand upon me in matrimony? And all that?" The fancy words were good. If she wasn't at all interested, they could pretend it had been another bit of joking and go on from there.
"But…"
Joking wasn't good enough. "I mean it, Missy. Let's clear things up before we get ourselves into a situation where we feel like we have to, and it comes up as a grudge in every fight we have for the next fifty years."
"I want to be a librarian, not…"
"Be one."
"If we get married. If we don't have to stop and think about what we're doing in advance every single time, because it will be so convenient…"
He tilted her chin up again. "Is your Aunt Clara going to be a Little Miss Perfect Housewife?"
"No. She's going back to work after six weeks off."
"Think about it. Why? How?"
"Why? Because she wants to. How? Because with Uncle Wes and her both working for the consular service, she can afford a nursery maid to do the scut stuff and handle the baby while she has meetings and things at work. And another maid to keep the house, so supper's ready when they get back home. And they send the laundry and stuff to MaidenFresh." She pulled herself up, sat back, and grinned. "Clara really isn't into housework. She knows how to do it, cook and bake and stuff, and she's run a house before, but she would a lot rather be doing something else."
"So pull your mind set out of up-time middle class. Dad used to talk about this, sometimes. What happened in the nineteenth century was that there was this push on for everyone to follow bourgeois values. But most families didn't have the money to hire the staff that it required back then when modern appliances weren't around, so for most families, the mom turned into the maid and the nursemaid, too. Doing scut work and changing diapers all day and then expected to dress nice and make like the lady of the house in the evening so her husband wouldn't notice that her hands were all rough and chapped from scouring pots."
"I never thought of it that way."
"Bourgeois hypocrisy, Dad used to call it. 'Boor-jwah!' But there's no reason for you to, Missy, any more than Clara does. Get real. As weird as it still seems to me-my Dad, too, even more-the fact remains that in the here-and-now the once scruffy and disreputable hippie Stones are fast becoming one of the richest families in Europe. Outside of royalty, for sure. If there's any couple our age in Grantville who'll be able to afford all the household help they'll ever need, it's us. And we don't need to do the upstairs/downstairs thing, either. Just hire employees at home, like we hire the people at the plant."
He abandoned the fancy words. "Marry me, Melissa Marie Jenkins. No matter how unlikely it seems, we'll make a good team."
Missy wrapped her arms around her knees and looked down at him. "We'll make a good team" wasn't exactly, "You are the light of my heart and the love of my life," she thought. But she wasn't going to get flowery declarations from Ron. No lacy valentines. No poems. Probably not chocolates, either. If there ever were sweet, smooth milk chocolates again. No bouquets on anniversaries. No… flimflam, except as an occasional joke. No "I adore you and will until my last breath."
But she'd never said those things to him, either. He wouldn't know what to do with them if she did.
"Mom and Dad separated for a couple of years, did you know? She caught him running around with another woman. Anne was already away at nursing school. Chip lived with Grandma Jenkins and I stayed with Mom. Later on, Mom forgave him and took him back."
Ron shook his head. "I guess we weren't that close to most of the people in Grantville back then. I never heard about that."
"They didn't explain any of it to me when it was going on. I found out the reason a couple of years after they got back together. At a picnic out at Pop's. I was being a 'little pitcher with big ears,' eavesdropping on Nani while she sniped at Gran about Dad."
He looked up. Missy's cheek had marks from the texture of his sweater. Her gray eyes were bleak. She had pulled her hair back that morning, fastening it in a twist. She was magnificent. He wondered how she had ever come close to disguising herself as a cheerleading ditz. Maybe it had been the uniform.
"I wouldn't forgive you and take you back if you did that," she said quietly. "I would kill you, instead. I would find the heaviest long-handled cast iron skillet in our house. I would take it in a two-handed grip and bring it down on your skull as hard as I could swing it. Then I would sit there and howl over your corpse until I died of grief."
Ron reached up and took one of her hands.
"I don't remember ever seeing my mother. She took off when I was too little. Here's my own promise, separate from anything your family's ministers at First Methodist will ask me to say. I won't run around on you, if you say yes. Never, ever. I won't run off from you, the way Nathan did from Chandra without telling her what was going on. If I do have to go somewhere without you, you'll know why or I won't be going. No matter what."
In the back of her mind a little voice wailed for the last time. I sooo
o did not want this complication right now.
Missy took his other hand. "Done."
Ron pulled her down against him again. "It's going to be okay, Missy. Really it is. Honest."
Chad could not entirely believe that he had just received a formal request for his daughter's hand in marriage.
Accompanied, reasonably enough, by a separately delivered warning from the daughter in question that she and Ron would be getting married with or without her family's approval, even though they would rather have it. Nope, can't begin to imagine where she gets it.
Not to mention that he was examining a set of tax returns. Chad shuffled the papers in his hands. Apparently growing up on a hippie commune made Ron less sensitive than ordinary Grantvillers when it came to talking about practical things. The kid was almost down-time that way. And even though the rumor that Tom Stone refused to make a profit on the pharmaceuticals turned out to be correct, he was at least enough of a businessman to break even on them. But it hardly mattered, since the profits from the dye-making business were well-nigh astronomical and the business was expanding explosively.
Interestingly, the "improvident hippie" Stones were plowing most of the profits right back into the business. Their own income was quite modest, given what it could have been. Still, Ron received a reasonable salary for the work he was doing. It was a lot of work, too, even aside from setting up the new subsidiary with Bill Hudson. The dye works. Stone had incorporated, with his sons as minority shareholders. While the Venice-based enterprises…
Ron and Missy would not be suffering deprivation, to put it mildly.